by Håkan Nesser
“There’s no reason to doubt that,” said Beate Moerk. “It’s part of his evening ritual to sit there listening. He’s been doing it for the last thirty years, it seems.”
“There wasn’t an eleven o’clock news until 1972,” maintained Kropke.
“Really?” said Van Veeteren. “Anyway, I don’t think it matters much. Can we get his description of this man? That’s the interesting bit, of course. Bausen first.”
“OK, I talked to him that same night,” said Bausen. “He awoke for the same reason as all the other tenants, hmm—” He glanced at Bang, who was still busy with the Danish pastries.
“—and evidently couldn’t get back to sleep. Stood there on the stairs in his slippers and dressing gown at three-thirty in the morning, and was keen to give evidence.”
“He’s ninety-four years old,” said Beate Moerk, to put Münster in the picture.
“Anyway,” said Bausen, “he claimed that he’d seen a man enter the building from the direction of the park—”
“Door lock?” asked Münster.
“Hasn’t been working for several days,” said Kropke.
“—and go in through the front door. He was wearing some kind of tracksuit, dark with lighter markings. Tall and thin and carrying a parcel, or a bundle—well, he eventually decided that it was a bundle. He didn’t see anything of the man’s face because it was in the shadows all the time, but he thinks he had a beard—and quite long hair. Anyway, a quarter of an hour passed, or thereabouts, and then the man came out again and hurried into the park. That was more or less all, but it took more than half an hour to extract it.”
“The bundle?” asked Kropke. “Was he still carrying the bundle when he came out again?”
“Moen doesn’t remember that. He was uncertain about practically every detail, and to start with, he wasn’t even sure of the day; but when we were able to link it up with what had been said on the news, we eventually concluded that it must have been that Wednesday night. The question is: Was it the murderer he saw? I have to say that I’m very doubtful.”
“Even if it was the Axman,” said Van Veeteren, “what he had to say might not be all that helpful. Inspector Moerk?”
“Well,” said Beate Moerk, sucking at her pencil. “I don’t know. I spoke to him this morning. I had the impression that he was a bit absentminded, but when we came to the point, he seemed to be clearer. Isn’t that the way it usually is? They’re generally more sure of the details than they are of the whole picture, as it were. My father’s in the early stages of dementia, so I have some idea about how it works.”
“OK,” said Kropke. “What did he have to say?”
“The same as he told the chief inspector to start with,” said Beate Moerk. “Same times, same bundle—it’s just the description that was different.”
“What did he tell you, then?” asked Mooser.
“That it was quite a short, sturdy person—powerful, rather. He sticks to the bit about the tracksuit, but he says he didn’t see the man’s hair because he had a hat pulled down over his eyes.”
“Did you remind him about what he’d said earlier?” asked Kropke.
“Yes, but he couldn’t really remember what he’d said. It was in the middle of the night, and he was tired. I suspect the chief inspector is right: We’re not going to get much useful information out of this gentleman.”
“Which doesn’t prevent us from keeping a weather eye open for joggers, whether or not they’re carrying a bundle,” said Van Veeteren. “It’s as long as it is short. Incidentally, Meuritz hasn’t yet established the time of death. We shall see if he died during the eleven o’clock news or not. In Simmel’s case, he could pinpoint the time to the exact minute; don’t forget that!”
He broke the toothpick in two and gazed meaningfully at Bausen’s pack of cigarettes.
“Well, that’s it,” said Bausen. “Any ideas? You can say whatever you like. We’ll go through the strategy after lunch, but right now, anything goes. Well, what do you think?”
Bang belched. Kropke glowered at him, leaving no doubt as to what would happen to him once Bausen was no longer in charge, assuming that Kropke would be the one who took over, that is. Van Veeteren leaned back in his chair until it creaked. Münster sighed.
“At least one thing’s obvious,” said Beate Moerk eventually. “Regarding the motive, that is. Maurice Rühme is the Axman’s third victim, and he’s the third one who moved to Kaalbringen this year. Don’t try to tell me this isn’t significant.”
19
It had started quite promisingly, in fact, but after ten minutes it was the same old story. The DCI’s 5–1 lead was transformed via 6–6 and 7–10 to the usual and satisfying score of 9–15. In subsequent sets, Münster’s greater mobility and better precision reaped their reward. His short, angled strokes interspersed with long, high lobs were triumphant as always. It was the same old story, and perhaps Van Veeteren was not in peak condition after the last few days’ cigarettes and wine. In any case, after 6–15, 8–15 and 5–15, he’d had enough; and they handed possession of the court over to two young men who had spent the last few minutes watching them with a degree of scorn.
“The light is poor in this hall,” muttered Van Veeteren, and they ambled back to the changing rooms.
“Very,” said Münster.
“Not much of a floor either. Easy to slip.”
“Exactly,” said Münster.
“Hard to play with borrowed rackets as well.”
“Hopeless.”
“But we’ll have another joust the day after tomorrow even so,” Van Veeteren decided. “We need to keep in training if we’re to solve this case.”
“You could be right,” said Münster.
The dining room at The See Warf was practically empty when they sat down at a window table. Only Cruickshank and Müller were adorning a table not far away, accompanied by a man and a woman from TV6. Van Veeteren had spoken to all four of them at the press conference a few hours previously, and none of them showed any sign of wanting to disturb their dinner.
“Nobody seems to be venturing outdoors anymore in this town,” said Van Veeteren, looking around him. “People are a bit illogical. This last time, he actually struck in somebody’s home—Rühme’s, that is.”
Münster agreed.
“I’ve started to believe it’s a pretty weird business, this thing we’re mixed up in,” said Van Veeteren, helping himself to salad. “They do excellent fish here, by the way, especially the turbot, if you are inclined that way.”
“How do you mean, weird?” asked Münster politely.
“God knows,” said Van Veeteren, chewing away. “Just a feeling—but I generally have my hunches.”
Münster leaned closer to the windowpane in order to see through the reflections. The sea looked dark and choppy out there. The weather had changed during the morning; banks of cloud came scuttling in from the northwest in rapid succession and one shower had followed hard on the heels of another all day. The boats in the marina were tossing about in the high waves, and Münster suddenly felt tuned to the raging of the elements, Nature’s own protest at the deeds and sayings of mankind—murderers roaming around unrestrained and all that crap.
Or was it his relationship with Synn? He still hadn’t been in touch with her and was starting to be annoyed by the DCI’s smug musings. Still, he had a fair amount of experience, and this is how things usually went—and he hoped that everything would be back to normal when he could get through to her. It seemed selfish, to say the least, sitting here and fretting about his private life while people were expecting him to do all he could to set traps for the Executioner, or the Mad Axman, or whatever name happened to be in vogue at the moment.
“I can’t work out what his motive is,” said Van Veeteren. “He must have a hell of a good reason for going out there and cutting three people’s heads off.”
“You don’t believe it’s a madman, then?”
“Not for a minute,” said V
an Veeteren. “On the contrary, I think we’re looking at some very carefully planned acts. His intention has been to kill these three men—Eggers, Simmel and Rühme—and that’s what he’s done. We won’t nail him unless we can find the motive, Münster. The motive!”
“And there aren’t any more names on his list?”
Van Veeteren took a sip of beer and gazed out to sea.
“God knows,” he said again. “We must sit down and take a good look at this, Münster. There are several different possibilities, and I want us to make up our minds what our priorities are going to be.”
“What possibilities?” asked Münster, as was no doubt the intention.
“Well,” said Van Veeteren, “off the top of my head I can only think of two. The first is, of course, that there is a clear and distinct link between the victims, that he’s had an all-important reason for murdering these three particular individuals. As yet, we don’t know what that link is, but it could very well be that as soon as we do, everything will fall into place. We’ll have him in a little box.”
Münster nodded.
“Moerk’s idea?” he said.
“Of course,” said Van Veeteren. “That’s the only one we’ve discovered so far. All three of them arrived in Kaalbringen this year, that much is certain. It could be a coincidence, of course, but I don’t think so. There’s an opening here, but where the hell does it get us?”
“Not very far,” said Münster.
“No,” sighed Van Veeteren. “We need something more. Although it may be that they’ve nothing more in common than the link with the murderer. Obviously, you’d expect the local police to find out what the connection is before we do, but if this is all there is, well . . . that means—”
“—that we’ll see everything as clear as day as soon as we find him,” interrupted Münster. “But not until then.”
“Not a damn thing until then,” said Van Veeteren. “Would you like dessert, or just coffee?”
“Just coffee,” said Münster.
“Just let things take their course, then,” said Münster, trying not to sound impatient. “Sooner or later we’ll fall over something. Or else he’ll strike again. How many new arrivals are there, by the way? He might be after all of them.”
“About fifty this year, Bausen says. But let’s hope the motive is a bit more specific than that. I think we should cross our fingers and hope the press doesn’t latch on to Moerk’s thesis. It could be a bit awkward, providing police protection for all incomers; we’ve got enough panic as it is. No, let’s solve this like greased lightning, Münster; I think that would be best for all concerned! I want to get home as soon as possible.”
Same here, thought Münster. He toyed with the idea of suggesting a changing of the guard, that Reinhart and Rooth should come and relieve them; but of course, that was not very realistic. No, it would doubtless be best to consider themselves citizens of Kaalbringen for the immediate future, and if only he could get a call though to Synn, as he’d already established, he was sure he’d be able to put up with everything fate threw at him.
“What’s the other possibility?” he remembered to ask.
“Huh,” said Van Veeteren, scratching the back of his neck. “That it’s all a bluff, pure and simple. The ABC Murders—have you read it?”
Münster shook his head.
“The murderer launches a whole series of murders to camouflage the fact that there’s only one victim he has his sights on. He kills them in alphabetical order, but it’s only the C murder that is significant—from his point of view, that is.”
“I see,” said Münster. “So Eggers and Simmel might be red herrings, as it were? The victim who really counts is Rühme. A bit far-fetched, I’d have thought.”
“It could be Eggers or Simmel as well—the main character, that is—don’t forget that! That would be even more far-fetched.”
“But would he keep going afterward? No, I think that’s psychologically impossible.”
“Not impossible,” said Van Veeteren. “Less credible, perhaps. The one who matters might also be number six, or number thirteen, although I’m inclined to think this isn’t an ABC affair.”
“What is it, then?” Münster ventured to ask after a pause.
Van Veeteren stirred his coffee slowly with a toothpick.
“A murderer,” he said deliberately, “who is a perfectly normal citizen of this town, and who had a damn good reason to kill Heinz Eggers, Ernst Simmel and Maurice Rühme. All of them men, all of them recent arrivals.”
Great, thought Münster. So now we know.
“How many candidates are there?” he asked.
“I’ve done a few sums,” said Van Veeteren. “If we leave out the women—”
“Can we do that?”
“No,” said Van Veeteren, “but we’ll do it all the same. And the elderly, and children, which we’re not really permitted to do either. Well, that leaves us with about fifteen thousand people.”
“Excellent,” said Münster. “Can we ask all male citizens between the ages of fifteen and seventy-five to turn up at the station and produce an alibi?”
“Of course we can,” said Van Veeteren. “I’ve no doubt that Kropke would be delighted to feed them all into his computer. Should be ready by around Christmas, I would think.”
“A shortcut might not be a bad idea,” said Münster.
“That’s what we’re going to find,” said Van Veeteren, finishing off his coffee. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Really?” said Münster. “I was beginning to wonder . . .”
“Who do you think we should concentrate on?” asked Van Veeteren as Münster reached for the door handle.
“Meaning what?”
“Well, even if this isn’t an ABC affair, it might be an idea to off-load a couple of the murders. Concentrate on just one of them, as if the others had never happened. That way you avoid diluting your concentration. If we solve one, we no doubt solve them all. Three flies with one thwack.”
Münster approved.
“Maurice Rühme, in that case,” he said. “No point in poking around old corpses when there’s a fresh one at hand.”
“My view exactly,” said Van Veeteren. “You’ll go far, one of these fine days.”
“Just now I’ll settle for going to bed,” said Münster. “Good night, sir!”
20
As soon as she woke up, she went down to the newsstand and bought the newspapers.
It was part of the Sunday ritual, and she could normally count on walking there and back by the time the kettle had boiled. Today it took four times as long. Mrs. Sorenson stopped her outside the front door and wanted her worries put to rest, Mr. Markovic had opinions to shout down from his balcony, and Miss deMaar at the newsstand refused to hand over the papers until she had been given a detailed report on how the murder hunt was progressing. A family that had only recently moved in, husband and wife and two blubbering children, had views about the competence of the police and their duty to protect ordinary, decent citizens; and when she finally managed to get away, it was only by referring to the important interrogations she was due to conduct after lunch.
“Interrogations! Really?” growled the janitor, Mr. Geurtze, who had materialized out of nowhere. “That’s something, I suppose. And when do you expect to find the next victim?”
It was impossible not to notice his sarcasm. But there again, she reminded herself that Mr. Geurtze never did have anything nice to say. Not since somebody set fire to the rabbit hutches at his allotment a few years ago. She could see his point, in fact; in his world, good had surrendered unconditionally to evil. There was no reason for him to expect anything but unpleasantness and ugly stuff. It was one way of avoiding disappointment.
Perhaps that wasn’t a stupid stance to adopt—not if you were a lonely old man with a weak bladder, cataracts and heart fibrillation. On the other hand, if you were a woman in her prime, perhaps you ought to try for a more balanced view of life.
/> Stupid old bastard, was Beate Moerk’s conclusion as she locked the door behind her.
The line taken by the newspapers was more or less consistent. Two and a half months had passed since the first murder, twelve days since the second, three since the last one—surely it was high time the police spoke out? What leads did they have? What theories were they working on? Had they any concrete suspicions? The general public had a right to be informed!
Nevertheless, the criticism was not as cutting as what she’d been subjected to at the newsstand. Their faith in Bausen and the two experts summoned from outside to assist appeared to be more or less unshaken. The chief of police had evidently succeeded yet again with his spin and tactical ploys at the press conference the day before.
The speculation and guessing games were all the more wholehearted for that.
Who was this macabre demon?
A madman? A psychotic butcher? A perfectly normal citizen of Kaalbringen with a wife and children and a law-abiding lifestyle?
The latter was, of course, the most attractive possibility from a journalistic point of view—the idea that it could be anybody at all! Somebody sitting opposite you on the bus. Somebody you chatted to in the line at the post office. One of the supply teachers at the high school. A series of psychologists from various factions pontificated; one newspaper had an article in its Sunday supplement about a number of similar cases, most of them foreign and several decades old. Rolliers, the Nice murderer; Günther Katz, the grim reaper from Vermsten; Ernie Fischer, who butchered women in 1930s Chicago—not to mention the Boston Strangler and various other stars in the criminal firmament.
As there had been no clear guidance from those in charge of the investigation, the garden of speculation was in full bloom. The Neuwe Blatt gave prominence to the so-called Leisner Park theory, which was based on the fact that in at least two of the killings (Simmel and Rühme), the murderer had probably come from or through that park; and so he must live in one of the apartment blocks in that area. C. G. Gautienne wrote in den Poost that “the accelerating tempo of the murders quite clearly indicates another outrage at the beginning of next week, Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest . . .”; whereas the Telegraaf informed its readers of the most effective way of protecting themselves from the Axman, as well as passing on the prophecy of their resident astrologer, Ywonne: The next victim would probably be a forty-two-year-old man in the building trade.
